THE DURINS AREN'T AS MAJESTIC AS THEY THINK THEY ARE
by applepieisworthit
Summary: This is a series of One-shots with a different Durin falling over each chapter - Thorin chapter is nsfw, some have charac. death. Most of them are character studies, some of the characters are OC's from Determamfidd's story Sansukh.
1. Thror

**The Mighty Fall**

This is a story written for renioferebor and justatouchofgoldsickness on tumblr (or Thráin and Thrór in the Sansûkh podfic) and for #QUEENDETS the wonderful writer of Sansûkh, I have borrowed some of your characters for this fic so it's dedicated to you as well!

CRASH!

There is a sudden intake of breath from the Dwarves in the throne room whilst the only sign of surprise on Thranduil's face is the slight raising of an eyebrow and a small twitch at the side of his mouth.

Thrór, son of Dáin, King under the Mountain, the mightiest of the Dwarves of Durin's line, has just risen from his throne to greet the Elvenking, tripped over his robes and sent himself sprawling face first across the hard marble floor at the base of the throne.

A stunned silence follows whilst the Dwarf king picks himself up, straightens the crown on his brow and brushes his robes off. A few of the normally expressionless elves spread out around their king have small smirks lifting the corners of their mouths, and it is obvious from Thrór's sour expression that he has noticed this slight against him.

The next half an hour of negotiation talks between the Dwarves and Elves are even more strained than usual; the elves are trying and failing to hide their obvious amusement at Thrór's fall.

The Dwarf guards and courtiers meanwhile are having an increasingly hard time keeping in their debilitating laughter; Thráin, Son of Thrór, Crown Prince of Erebor has been going increasingly red in the face over the course of the talks and seems to be barely holding himself in check. Queen Hrera, wife of Thrór, has spent the last half an hour becoming more and more exasperated with Longbeards (and Durins) and their idiocy; no Broadbeam would have made such a blunder in front of visiting royalty.

Finally the negotiations are over and after an exceedingly mocking half-bow Thranduil and his entourage leave the throne room.

No sooner have the Elves disappeared from view than a loud peal of deep laughter echoes around the cavernous space. There is a beat of shocked silence – who would dare to laugh aloud at the King – when no one seems to know what to do with themselves, and try to make it obvious it isn't them laughing. When there is a huff from beside the throne, everyone spins that direction to see Thráin beside himself with mirth.

Thrór stares at his son for about half a minute in shock and indignation as Thráin tries to get his guffaws under control. Hrera, standing just behind her son near the throne, has a feeling that her eyes are going to hurt from the amount of times she rolled them by the end of the day.

No one standing in the throne room is the least bit surprised when Thrór stalks right up to his son and smashes his fist into his face as hard as he can. Thráin staggers back a few steps, still snickering, as blood gushes from his handsome Durin nose down his face.

Hrera, who had taken a few steps out of the way in exasperation, hurries, grandly, over to her husband and son with a tut, brandishing a handkerchief which she presses to her son's nose, mopping up the blood before it can run into his beard and ruin all her hard work braiding it for today.

There is a tense silence reverbing through the vast space as everyone waits for a hint of what to do. Finally, Thrór waves a dismissive hand and the courtiers start to trickle out, still in almost complete silence. Any talking that has started up is rendered silent again when there is an echoingly loud snort.

Everyone freezes in wide-eyed horror and turns slowly to the guard placed to the left of the throne in mounting dread. Hrera has closed her eyes in resignation and Thráin winces slightly, it is one thing for the son of the King to laugh at him, another completely for some anonymous guard to laugh.

Thrór turns slowly from his wife and son to glare at the guard. He then marches over to the guard, his restrained anger and annoyance clear in his tense shoulders and loud, uncontrolled gait, for Thrór was a Dwarrow usually well in control of actions.

The guard is practically trembling in his boots as Thrór looms over him, with narrowed eyes and his lips pursed in a thin line.

The tension in the room is thick and getting thicker by the minute as everyone waits to see what Thrór will do to the Dwarf who dared to laugh at his humiliation in front of the Elvenking. Practically every Dwarf standing stiff jumps out of place when the King lets out a deep chuckle. The poor guard standing in front of him seems to not know how to react so she just continues staring blankly, hoping to escape anymore of Thrór's wrath.

Thrór claps a hand down on the fear-paralysed Dwarrowdam's shoulder, with a further chuckle.

"Don't worry lass. I would have laughed too," there is a beat of silence where no one seems to know how to react to the Dwarf King's statement before he carries on regardless, "however…" everyone watching tenses further at the slightly less jovial tone issuing forth from Thrór, "I think a couple 'a months toilet duty shouldn't hurt you." Thrór pauses and everyone waits to with baited breath to see if there is anymore, "and maybe cleaning up after my grandchildren perhaps. I think that should do it."

If it is possible even more of a hush falls over the hall at the last statement, every Dwarf in Erebor knows how troublesome Thráin's young sons Thorin and Frerin are and being given clean up duty after them for two months is nearly worse than being locked in the dungeons for a while.

The guard is standing staring in muted horror at the King when he raises an eyebrow at her, "Well? What are ye waiting for?" The guard starts and scuttles away to the royal suite as quick as she can to get out of the way of anymore of the King's wrath. Hrera tuts at her husband as he stalks out of the throne room in the direction of the training grounds, most likely to spar with his distant cousin Fundin.

Just as Thráin, still chuckling slightly, goes to leave the room to head to Frís and his sons Thrór stalks back in and heads straight for Thráin. Hrera, holding her son's elbow, glares at her husband, who cowers slightly under her annoyance, but still comes over.

"I have realised, inûdoy, that you should have a punishment for laughing at your king." Hrera yet again finds herself rolling her eyes at her ridiculous Longbeard husband.

"Adad, I'm 120, I don't think I need punishments anymore."

"Now now Inûdoy, don't be childish. I think maybe a couple of weeks of doing my paperwork should help?"

Thráin's eyes widened as he stared at his father, "Adad! Are you serious?!"

Thrór smirked and clapped a hand onto Thráin's shoulder, "Should teach you not to laugh at your King, nidoy." Thráin huffs at his father as Thrór turns back around a small smile quirking his lips behind his beard and strolls back towards the training rooms.


	2. Thráin

Thráin didn't know when it had started and it certainly did NOT mean he loved his wife less. She was his one and no one could replace that.

He supposed if asked he would have described it as fascination. His father, Thrór, has described it as obsession, but he could go shove it up his arse as far as Thráin was concerned.

He'd first noticed Dori when he was on Erebor watch duty, with his elaborate braids, strong stout stature and firm countenance Dori was the epitome of Dwarfliness and one of the most attractive Dwarves that Thráin had ever seen.

In his flustered state Thráin had blinked many times and ended up in a different place through the pool. He left the pool to give his wife his report and tried to ignore the intrigue he felt over this Mithril-haired Dwarf.

He had managed to put any allure he felt towards Dori aside, yet when he went back to watch over Erebor he found himself unintentionally paying more attention to the stern guild master than to Dáin.

Over the next few weeks Thráin surreptitiously watched Dori when he was supposed to be paying attention to the goings on around Erebor. The captivation he felt with the Dwarf was not as much attraction as it was a deep sense of respect for the Dwarrow who had lost both brothers and carried on.

It was when he was in the middle of one of his watching sessions that Frís appeared beside him. He didn't notice until she called his name gently and asked what he was doing.

Thráin turned towards the person who had just arrived beside him in Gimlin-Zaram and jumped backwards in surprise.

His foot caught in the folds of his long coat and he fell back, his arms pin wheeling and an abject look of horror plastered on his face. Frís stared at her husband in amusement as he looked back up at her sheepishly from the floor where he was still lying prone.

"Frís! Err… hello."

"Thráin. Why are you so surprised?"

"No reason âzyungel. Just watching over Erebor for our inûdoy."

Frís raised an eyebrow at her husband as he picked himself up from the floor, surreptitiously trying to rub his rapidly bruising arse to relieve some of the pain. He couldn't hide the light pink spreading over his cheeks.

"It's Dori isn't it?"

"What? Huh? I… Frís I'm not sure _what _you're talking about."

Frís left the pool in a shimmer of light and smirked to herself as she heard and saw Thráin scrambling to follow her, "Yes husband?"

"Frís I… I wasn't…"

Frís patted Thráin's cheek lightly, and then stopped him in the middle of the hallway and turned his face towards hers, "I know âzyung. Have you seen the way that everyone looks at him?"

Thráin frowned down at his wife, "I'm not attracted to him ghivasha." She smiled up at him in return, and wrapped him into a hug.

"Thráin, I've been watching him too."

"_What?"_

Frís rolled her eyes at her husband and supposed it must be his Durin genes making him act like Thorin or Frerin at their stupidest.

"Thráin, seriously, I'm your one, I know you're not looking at others. Dori is beautiful; you are allowed to admire that."

So the next week when Thráin found himself staring at Dori again he didn't feel so bad even when his 'Adad raised an amused eyebrow at him behind Thorin's back and mouthed 'obsessed' at him.


	3. Dáin

Dáin had had the pig from Thorin for nearly six months now and he still hadn't named it. The pig had become a constant companion, trotting along beside Dáin as he strolled through the halls of the Iron Hills and Dáin had already purchased ten more stout piglets from some eastern trader and had recruited a couple of Eastern Blacklock Dwarrowdams who could train pigs.

Dáin was immensely proud of his developing Battlepig squadron and had realised as a result that after Khazad-Dum the Western Dwarf armies were decimated and needed to be built up. Dáin made it his mission to have the best army in Middle Earth.

Whilst Dáin had had the pig for six months he was still unused to it lying around his rooms and the throne room of the Iron Hills, so really, it was only a matter of time until something happened to make him look incredibly stupid.

Of course that had to be him tripping over the blasted thing.

Two weeks into the stay of the ambassador from the Orocarni Mountains; the rude, stuffy old Dwarf who believed he knew the best way to run Dáin's mountain and had spent his time there trying to marry Dáin off to his daughter, a stout Dwarrowdam with an oddly thin nose and dark hair piled in elaborate Blacklock braids on top of her head and trailing down her back.

Dáin had been stoutly refusing to hear any talk about marriage, Dwarves married for the love of their one not for convenience, and Dáin refused to be coerced into a political move that would give a selfish Dwarf control over his father's and grandfather's beloved home.

The Blacklock ambassador Dorar, the father of Drós, the Dwarrowdam he wished Dáin to marry, was still insistent that Dáin was unfit to rule and needed guidance from a Dwarf more mature than him. Dáin had been consistently ignoring Dorar's pestering and had focused on making trade agreements with his much more approachable subordinates.

The ambassador's doubts surrounding Dáin came to a head the day that Thorin arrived in the Iron Hills to aid in the negotiations between the Eastern and Western Dwarves. Whilst Dáin knew that his much-loved cousin was arriving this day, most of the others in his mountain thought that Thorin was turning up in two days. It had been a plan agreed on between the two young Dwarf leaders, they both wanted a brief break from duties and to be able to see each other without scrutiny for a short time before Thorin had to be a King and Dáin had to be a Lord.

Thorin had arrived early that morning with Dwalin. Their younger cousin who had practically worshipped the ground Dáin walked on before Azanulbizar and had become as close to Dáin as Dáin was to Thorin in the aftermath when they were all recovering from the horrific battle they had been too young to see. Dáin and Dwalin, who had been 29 at the battle, only three years younger than Dáin, had also both lost both their parents. Náin, Fundin and Dweris had all been in the King's personal guard and had all fallen with their King. Dáin's mother Daeris had been with the rest of the expert sword wielders in the elite guard that advanced before the King, and had given her life in service to Thrór as well.

They had arrived before most of the mountain was awake and had been shown to their rooms discreetly by Dáin's most trusted advisor and closest friend Bálli. An incredibly kind but shrewd Dwarf with a barrel plaited, dyed vibrant green beard which fell down their chest in three thick braids and denoted their proud status as Zatakhuzdun. Bálli had known Dáin from infancy and had been the one to pull him from his grief again and again after Azanulbizar when Dáin's closest family had had to leave for Ered Luin.

Dáin had seen Thorin earlier that morning before he had to leave for breakfast in his empty rooms, but Dáin had been stuck in meetings with the infuriating Dorar for nearly four hours now and was becoming increasingly frustrated at every other word coming out of the oblivious Dwarf's mouth.

Bálli was stiffening more and more in anger and indignation for their friend at Dáin's side, and over the course of the meeting Dáin has already had to lay a calming hand on their arm four times to stop any detrimental scuffles breaking out.

As Dorar rambles on about proper court etiquette for a Dwarf Lord at the other end of the table, Dáin leans over to Bálli and whispers that maybe they should go fetch Thorin and Dwalin and get them to watch the meeting from the hidden room in the back. Dáin was worried about the way the meeting may end up going and having the King of Durin's folk and one of the most renowned veterans of Azanulbizar in the back ready to come out, on Dáin's side, and sort out any disputes that range into dangerous territory could only be a good thing.

By the time Bálli has returned ten minutes later, and informed Dáin that his cousins are in position, almost all of Dáin's advisors are bristling with indignation at the thinly veiled insults issuing from Dorar, who was still oblivious to the building tension in Dáin's council rooms.

When Dáin rises from his seat at the head of the table the room falls silent and Dorar's needling nasal voice trails off finally. This ability to go unnoticed and let his advisors accidentally reveal more than intended whilst also being able to command silence with certain moves that Dáin seems to possess without trying becomes incredibly useful in his later life, ruling over his cousin's regained Kingdom.

It happens when Dáin is heading over to get a drink from the sideboard; he knows that he could have some servant do this for him, and Dorar and many of the older, more stuck up Dwarrows most likely think this. However, he is not an invalid, even with only one whole leg, and whilst he is healthy he refuses to make the dwarves that work for him, that he respects, do menial jobs he could do himself. Even though he had been raised as a Dwarf Lord he knows about hardship from both his 'Adad and sigin'adad and refuses to not acknowledge any suffering that the Dwarves he is responsible for might face.

The pig (which he still has to name) is lying across the floor near his chair as usual, but in his anger and frustration he has forgotten about it and his iron foot, an attachment he is still slightly clumsy on, even after wearing it for 15 years since Thira made it for him, catches on both the pig's tail and the slightly uneven marble floor, from where Dáin had chipped it as a small child playing with a small version of Náin's Warhammer during Náin's council meetings.

He is sent sprawling across the hard, cold; unforgiving ground and he can practically feel the wince coming from Bálli as they leap out of their seat to his aid straight away. There is a resounding silence from the rest of the room as Bálli pulls Dáin to his feet and helps him to readjust his iron foot. The room bursts into noise as soon as Dáin is back on his feet and his closest advisors rush to help and check that he is okay.

All Dáin can feel is a sinking sensation of dread as he watches Dorar across the room. This dread is validated when, after everyone has migrated back to their seats and Dáin has reassured nearly everyone in the room that he is okay (except a few of Dorar's ensemble who have been snickering to themselves this whole time), Dorar stands again and starts speaking in his nasally voice. This time however, there is an underlying sneer and patronising tone to the words which slip from his slimy tongue.

"You see? This is what I was talking about my fellow esteemed Dwarves. How are we meant to trust the ruling of one of the greatest Dwarven strongholds to him? He is only 51 years old and he just tripped over a pig! Is this the Dwarf we want ruling so many of our people?! A Dwarrow who cannot control how he walks? A cripple. An orphan. A child. We must not let this inexperienced juvenile youth to lead the Iron Hills, the source of much of the Dwarves' wealth, into ruin! You and Thráin's son?! You are who we have to lead us into prosperity? We will fail if the fates of the greatest Dwarf kingdoms are left in your hands! The youngsters who failed to keep any of their family alive eighteen years ago! And now we are expected to trust you? Hah! I will not leave the Dwarves' fate in the hands of the likes of you or your cousin playing at being King…"

Dáin could feel his chest tightening and his breath catching in his chest in horror and sorrow as this Dwarf laid bare all of Dáin's deepest fears.

He heard a quiet scuffle behind him and could just imagine Thorin holding Dwalin back from chopping the horrid Dorar's head off for the insults offered to his King and his closest cousins.

Dáin could feel the anger and utter horrified feelings rolling off Bálli and his closest advisors nearest to him as Dorar carried on insulting the members of the Line of Durin obliviously at the other end of the table. He didn't know how to respond; he sat there hating himself as all of his 'Adad's training flew out his head and he froze.

It was when Dorar said, "Maybe we shouldn't have the Line of Durin as our rulers anymore! Thorin I went mad and then Thrór! How do we know that Grór didn't pass the madness down to Náin and Dáin?! How can we trust our iron and gold and gems to a line plagued by madness?"

It was the last sentence that got the biggest reaction, Azanulbizar may have been a mistake, but no one insulted a Durin without major backlash; for all the bad that had plagued the Durin line in the last few centuries there was too much good to make up for it. Besides, Durin was the first Dwarf and Mahal's favourite and of his children the Longbeard line were the direct descendants and carried Durin's greatness in their veins.

Before Dáin or any of his other advisors, including Náin's oldest friend, the tough old Dwarrowdam Kárunn and Daeris' personal advisor and close friend, Skúvur, could even consider jumping to their new, and beloved, Lord's defense Bálli was out of their seat and storming towards Dorar.

"What do you know? Hmm? Were you there? Did you fight beside Thrór? Did you offer your life for the good of the Dwarves? Did you even try to help reclaim our ancient homeland? Were you there!?"

"Now see here..."

"See what Dorar? That you were a coward and now choose to insult those who would have willingly given their lives in service to their King!? Call our Lord, a Dwarrow who lost his the bottom half of his leg for Thrór, a cripple?! Imply he is a coward? You clearly don't understand and yet you think you have the right to question King Thorin and Lord Dáin."

To the shock of everyone in the council room Dorar's fist whipped out and caught Bálli under their chin sending them skidding back across the room where they tripped over Dáin's pig and were sent sprawling backwards, this act of treachery shocked Dáin out of his horrified stupor and he rose slowly out of his chair at the head of the table, his left hand clenched around Náin's Warhammer at his side, his knuckles turning white with the force of his rage at the humiliation being meted against his best friend.

A silence fell slowly over the room as the horrified advisors looked between their furious Lord and the insulting, treasonous Blacklock Dwarf in trepidation.

Before Dáin could move from his spot there was a loud crash from behind him and Dwalin fell through the door, Thorin standing behind him his face the picture of disgust and uncontrollable rage. Dwalin pulled himself up off the floor quickly and, ignoring the shocked faces of everyone in the room except Dáin, drew Grasper from his over the shoulder straps and stalked right up into Dorar's face, his axe held into what could be nothing other than a threatening position against the old Dwarrow's throat.

Thorin had followed Dwalin over, his pace barely controlled and his lips pulled back in a snarl. The room had gone completely quiet when people saw the appearance of Dwalin, a fierce some 29 year old Dwarfling before Khazad-Dum, and now a heavily muscled, tattooed Dwarrow with a Mohawk reminiscent of the slightly older Dáin, who Dwalin practically worshipped.

The silence became tense and slightly fearful when Thorin followed his younger cousin out through the wreckage of the door. He clapped Dáin's shoulder in solidarity on his way past.

Whilst Thorin marched over to Dorar, Dáin rushed over to Bálli and helped to pull them up from the wreckage of the table they had crashed into after tripping over the pig when Dorar punched them. The room fell even more silent if that was possible and everyone seemed to draw a breath at once when Thorin finally towered over Dorar; even at 72 and 48 respectively Thorin and Dwalin were two of the tallest of Durin's folk.

"Would you like to say what you just insinuated in front of my cousin, the Lord of the Iron Hills, to me? King of Durin's folk? _YOUR _King?! You think you can get away with insulting my sigin'adad and have no repercussions?" Dorar opened his mouth to respond, but Thorin cut back in before he could say anything, "You think you have the right to insinuate that _we_ are the reason I have no brother, no grandfather, no father anymore," here Thorin's voice broke and Dáin had to control himself from crossing the room and pulling his hurting older cousin into a bone-crushing hug, "that Dáin, who was 32 at the time, too far from being an adult, has no parents anymore?!"

Dorar stuttered, flinching away from where Dwalin's axe, and clearly trying to come up with an answer that would appease the furious Dwarf King. When he had been stuttering for what Thorin clearly deemed too long Thorin leaned closer, a contemptuous sneer on his face.

"If you would like to keep your head attached to your shoulders then you should think very carefully about the next words out of your mouth."

"M..My King, I never meant any insult…"

Dwalin's snort from behind the stuttering Dwarf echoed around the room and made Dorar flinch away from the grizzly Dwarf and unintentionally towards the enraged King. Thorin growled and whirled away from Dorar, storming out of the room, his shoulders set and his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, his gait faltering and unsteady thanks to his anger.

Dorar deflated as Dwalin followed behind the young King with one final shoulder clap for his older cousin and a contemptuous snarl for Dorar.

Dáin had watched his cousin's anger grow hot and fiery with hate at the Dwarf who had insulted his family but found his own turning icy and cold in his veins, and finally understood the fundamental difference between them. Whilst Thorin would whirl into a rage and destroy everything in his path like a dragon, Dáin knew that his anger would simmer cold beneath the surface and come out in curt words and taciturn dismissals.

After helping Bálli up from the ground and making sure they were okay, Dáin walked slowly and controlled over to Dorar, standing a respectable distance away, and whilst there were so many differences between his and his cousin's anger the room was still silent and tense as Dáin stared the rude Dwarf down.

"I thank you for your presence in the Iron Hills, Dorar" here Dorar opened his mouth to correct Dáin over the omission of his title, but Dáin's voice cut across his sharply, "but we feel that the trade agreements you have brought with you are useless to everyone but you and as such we will be doing no more trade with the Blacklock clan in the Red Mountains until they send an ambassador appropriate to be negotiating with Dáin II Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills. Until then we thank you for your visit and ask you to please GET THE FUCK OUT." Here Dáin could not control his anger anymore and hefted his father's Warhammer over his shoulder with little to no effort and stared at Dorar until said Dwarf made an affronted noise and whirled on his heels, storming out of the room muttering.

Dáin noticed Bálli smirking over his shoulder and winked at them, before turning to the pig Thorin had gifted him and deciding its name.

"I shall name you 'uhban. Welcome to the Iron Hills."

Zatakhuzdun – literally, "Whole Dwarf, one/embodies this" – nonbinary, gender-neutral.

Sigin'adad – grandfather

'Adad – father

'uhban – he who takes revenge


	4. Balin

He knew a year in that it had been a bad idea, but he couldn't face telling the Dwarves that he had brought with him all this way so he stayed tight lipped, suffered through the knowledge that sooner or later it was going to come crashing down around them, and there was nothing he could do about it.

It seemed to get better, for three years there were no orcs, there was almost peace, they started to build a small colony and Balin felt some hope for the possibility that, maybe, one day, Durin's folk might finally have their ancestral home of Khazad-Dum back.

It was in their fifth year that Balin's initial thoughts came back to haunt him, it started with quiet rolling drums that sounded like thunder crashing far away from them, and though Óin and Balin exchanged wary glances neither said anything and the uneasy silence carried on.

Over the months the rolling thunder seemed to get closer and closer and Óin and Balin could no longer deny the dread filling their chests whenever they heard the sound and soon they were packing up; moving slowly and carefully to make sure they left nothing behind.

In the end Balin knew this was their biggest mistake.

When he thought about it later in the halls he could never explain to himself why he left their small grouping to look at Durin's crown in Kheled-Zaram, why had he ever thought that he would survive? Why had he ever thought that leaving Erebor would be a good idea! They had had a stable and flourishing Dwarrow Kingdom and he'd decided, on a fool's dream, to ignore the wisdom of Dáin, the King who had fought at Azanulbizar with Balin and tried so many times to remind him of Thrór's folly.

How could he have allowed Óin, his cousin to come along, and Ori, poor young Ori, the scribe from their quest who had wormed his way into the Company's hearts? How would he ever look Dori in the face again? Knowing it was his fault that Dori had lost the little brother he doted on, the light of his life. He'd never know, they had been done for, and there would be no way for Dori to know. Not for sure; he'd be forever wondering what had happened to his nadadith, to the brother he had practically raised from infancy.

But he didn't know this at the time and had blindly led many of Erebor's youngest and fittest into a terrible, slow building trap.

He was wandering through the upper halls when he came across the entrance that had haunted him for so many decades after Azanulbizar, the massive doors that led out onto the desolation where so many of his family had died. Also the doors that led towards Kheled-Zaram and Durin's crown, so Balin ignored the feeling of dread as he strolled down towards the pool and the fabled image.

He also ignored the prickling feeling of something watching him as he stared upon a sight that few but Durin himself had seen.

It turned into the last thing he ever did.

He didn't feel it at first, the arrow pierced through his chest from behind, and he stared down at the blood blossoming across his chest in shock. It was when another arrow pierced out from just below the first that Balin started to feel.

It didn't feel like he thought it would as he slowly fell to his knees, his legs giving out beneath him, the pain was a slow burn spreading out through his limbs and a low pained whimper left him as he fell forward to his hands and knees, his breathing harsh in his ears and the blood pounding in his head as though trying to escape the gaping chest wounds.

The burning was turning to ice in his fingertips and spreading up his limbs to his heart. He lifted one numb hand to his chest to try to stem the flow of blood, but he could feel his life seeping out past his frozen fingers. With each beat of his slowing heart more hot blood soaked through his ripped tunic and out onto his unmoving slightly clenched hand, he knew it was doing nothing but couldn't stop himself from pressing down hard between the arrows and trying to stem the loss of his life-blood.

The now sluggishly moving blood was cloying and sticky on his hands and running down his arms in rapidly cooling rivulets and collecting beneath him as he heaved stuttered breaths into his tattered lungs through blood stained lips.

His magnificent white beard was stained red and pressed stickily to his rent open chest in random places as his legs slid out from under him and Balin lay face down on the ground.

He could hear the orc who had already shot him twice approaching behind him and he tried to slow the panicked, heavy breathing that rasped in his throat and into his ears.

His last breath was ragged and broken on a slow sob of pain when the orc yanked both arrows out through his back, dragging the arrow heads back through Balin's broken body.

When Ori went searching for Balin hours later he couldn't stop himself from collapsing in gut wrenching sobs next to the Dwarf who had mentored him for decades. It took him hours to resurface and when he did it was with a tear-stained and red, blotchy face, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Ori, son of Zhori, carried Balin, son of Fundin, into Khazad-Dum, his arms shaking with Balin's weight and his legs threatening to give up on him, but he didn't give up and he didn't put Balin down and he didn't stop, not until he reached the ante-chamber off the main hall.

There the remaining Dwarves of Khazad-Dum mourned their leader, they buried him in the stone as all proper Dwarves and sung an ancient mourning song from ages past and when they were finished no one remained unmoved and Ori and Óin were supporting each other as they stood closest to their companion's tomb.

Balin in turn watched in horror and disgust as awful fates befell every Dwarf that had accompanied him to that accursed place.

And he never forgave himself.

They had no need to go to Khazad-Dum, and he will forever regret not listening to a King younger, but far wiser than he.

NOTES:

READ THIS LISTENING TO SONG OF DURIN BY EURIELLE ON YOUTUBE


	5. Thorin

Thorin had neglected seeing Bilbo for the last few days as he reconnected with his nadadith and Frís and Thráin.

He wasn't paying proper attention as he sat on the bench that had become his over the last fifteen years in Mahal's Halls and entered the pool of Gimlin-Zaram, otherwise he may have avoided making his face turn completely red.

He appeared in a room in Bag End that he had never seen before and glanced around in confusion trying to work out where the hell he was. The answer became clear when his gaze settled on his Hobbit.

Thorin stumbled back in complete shock and tripped over his fumbling feet, landing hard on his arse on the floor still staring wide-eyed at the sight before him that he thought he'd never get to see.

He looked away guilty but couldn't help his eyes being drawn back irrevocably to the beautiful body of his one.

Bilbo was standing stark naked in front of the bath about to get in, and Thorin couldn't stop his eyes from scanning the compact body of the Hobbit in front of him a few times, still sitting on the floor from where he had fallen in shock. He was so glad that he came to see Bilbo alone, because there is no way he would have wanted Frerin to see either his Hobbit in all his glory or Thorin's humiliation.

Thorin shifted his legs to accommodate his growing length between them and considered that this was the lowest form of perving and he should really leave and not watch Bilbo bathe.

Thorin couldn't stop himself from staring as Bilbo moved around the bathroom, and slowly picked himself up off the floor, his cheeks flushing redder and redder, and burning hot with embarrassment and arousal.

He tried to force himself to turn away as Bilbo slipped into the bath, leaning his head back with a blissful moan that sent Thorin's mind swirling away down the drain and made his clothes more restricted around his, now rock hard, erection.

Thorin shifted in place, trying to convince himself that he shouldn't be standing watching Bilbo bathe, especially with no permission and Bilbo thinking that he was all alone in his smial.

Thorin has just turned his back to Bilbo and was readying himself to rush out of Gimlin-Zaram to take care of his 'problem' when Bilbo let out a soft moan behind him. Thorin couldn't have stopped himself from turning to look if Dagor Dagorath had been on them.

Bilbo was reclining in the bath, his hand beneath the water slowly stroking down his stomach towards his groin. Thorin swallowed heavily and reached down to adjust himself in his smalls, drawing in a sharp breath when Bilbo moaned heavily and his head dropped back, his eyes closed and hot breaths panting through his bitten lips.

Thorin swallowed sharply, taking a deep breath in through his nose and wishing he was really there with Bilbo. That Bilbo was consciously putting on this show for him had undressed in front of Thorin to tease him. Wished he could truly smell the musk mixing with the steam in the hot room. Wished that he had lived for his burglar, for the small moments they could have had together.

Thorin turned away, ashamed with himself for violating Bilbo's privacy like this. This time when Bilbo's moan echoed around the small space, Thorin winced as disgrace raced over him and closed his eyes tightly to will away the self-loathing that burned like acid in his throat. The sinfully good noises coming from Bilbo stopped as Thorin was whirled away from the colours of the alive world into Mahal's Halls.

He sat silent on his bench for a few minutes before rising and walking blindly to his room. He didn't hear his nephews confused questioning or his 'Amad's concerned mothering as he stalked through the dining hall that their family used, didn't see Frerin waving a hand in front of his face; knew nothing but the burning of the remorse flooding his system and choking him.

When he arrived at his rooms he stared blankly at the wall, agonising over Bilbo's reaction to knowing he had been watched and finding nothing to reassure himself. It was when he thought of the possibility that Bilbo wouldn't want to see him ever again if he knew that he collapsed in a heap onto his pallet.

He lay there for hours staring into the distance tears making tracks down his face and soaking into his beard. Deriding himself and biting his lip to hold back the contrite sobs building in his throat at the large insult he had paid the Hobbit he loves.

From then on whenever Thorin went to visit Bilbo he was much more careful about when he did, and paying more attention to his surroundings.


	6. Hrera

_(This is Thráin's mother - a character from Determamfidd's story Sansukh ((used with her permission)))_

She hadn't noticed it at first but Thrór had been acting different in public to usual.

When they were alone he was lighter; freer to show the emotions he held back from showing his Ereborian subjects and any visiting dignitaries, and in public he was stoic, not allowing emotions to show. He had been on the throne for nearly 50 years and for many of those he had been young and, as many said, too inexperienced to be a proper King and because of this Thrór had learnt to hide any vulnerability that could be prayed on by opportunistic Dwarves.

This visit was so very different though, the Lord of the Iron Hills, and Thrór's baby brother, Grór was visiting with his wife and several advisors with him, including his and Thrór's uncle Borin who had left Erebor for the Iron Hills nearly a decade ago to help with the marriage negotiations between Stera and Grór.

Stera was a stern Dwarrowdam, head of the healer's guild in the Iron Hills and working her way up to becoming guildmaster, even at her young age of 83, two years older than Grór. Hrera got on with her very well and the two had spent much of the last three weeks of the Iron Hills delegation's visit getting to know one another (much to the horror of both Thrór and Grór).

Thrór had been almost carefree for the last few weeks, laughing more, spending much of his time grinning at his baby brother – quite stupidly if Hrera did say so – and Hrera was becoming worried about her husband's sanity, madness did run in his family.

Whilst she was slightly worried she also loved seeing him being less stoic and closed off and had caught herself more than once staring at him admiringly as he commanded a respectful silence in his regal, Durin blue clothing, his beard in elaborate braids, oiled and arranged by her hands that morning, and his glittering blue eyes flicking over to her every few minutes, a hidden smile in their depths.

She had also found herself drifting away thinking about him when he wasn't around more in the last few weeks than she had in their twenty one years of marriage so far. Her every other thought, whatever it was about, revolved around whether Thrór would like or appreciate this item of clothing, or that jewel, or a certain dish. Hrera was incredibly confused but still certain possibilities that may seem obvious are pushed to the back of her head and denied. This was a very out of character move for Hrera, so, sooner or later, things were going to come to a head.

It was a sudden realisation, after a slow build that she hadn't noticed, that she was irrevocably in love with Thrór, son of Dáin, King under the Mountain, and her husband. She was walking with Grór when she realised that she loved the Longbeard idiot of a King.

In her shock at the realisation she stopped paying attention to where she was walking and her foot caught in the elaborate folds of her court dress and she was sent sprawling, her bejewelled arms flailing and finding nothing to hold onto, her lips parted in shock and spilling all manner of curses in Khuzdul that she would never have dreamed of uttering in respectable company if she had not been falling flat on the floor at that moment.

She lay there in utter horror as she contemplated wishing for the marble floor to open up and make her disappear.

She heard a gasp from behind her and then her brother-in-law was rushing for her and helping her to feet as quickly as possible. She stood there in shock for a few seconds, the witty words that usually flowed from her lips absent. Grór placed a hand over hers as she fished for words that wouldn't come to her.

"Namad, please, we are family. You must not trouble yourself to come up with an explanation for the supposedly foul language you just emitted, I have heard far worse from many considered as pure as you I'm sure." Hrera continued to stare at Grór in mute shock as he carried on, "The real concern is if you are okay, sister? What ever happened to make you fall so?"

Hrera opened and closed her mouth a few times, unable to come up with an explanation. She understood now why her husband was so much more relaxed with his brother beside him, Grór was a soft spoken and incredibly kind Dwarrow, who would clearly do anything for his family. Though she knew from Thrór that he was a fierce warrior when the situation called for it.

"I am unsure as to what happened brother." She was lying through her teeth and she knew that Grór could sense it, but she wasn't going to tell him before she told his gamil nadad.

Grór raised a sceptical eyebrow at Hrera, holding his arm out to her to help her, "Can you walk Hrera? You haven't hurt anything have you?" Hrera shook her head lightly taking a few steps before wincing at the pain that shot up her leg from the foot that had gotten tangled.

Grór shook his head at her incredulously, "You and my brother were clearly meant for each other; you are both as stubborn as one another."

"A Broadbeam noble is never stubborn, we merely know what is best in any situation." Hrera said through pursed lips as she tried to control the pain coursing through her now she had noticed her slight injury. Grór shook his head disbelievingly before catching her arm more firmly and starting to pull her gently along beside him.

"Where are you taking me Grór?! Unhand me at once; I refuse to be dragged along like a naughty Dwarfling." Grór stopped and stared back at Hrera for a few seconds consideringly.

"I'll let you go namad, if you promise to accompany me to the royal healers and let them check your leg to ensure there is no severe damage," Hrera stared at him her nostrils flaring in her annoyance before she let out an almost inaudible huff and nodded stiffly at Grór.

He released her arm and smiled softly down at her, offering her his left arm to help her along to the healers without it looking to others that he was helping her. He knew that his brother's wife was an incredibly proud Dwarrowdam and would not want to appear weak in front of any subjects that might possibly see any weaknesses.

When they arrived at the royal healers Hrera was cringing and wincing slightly with each step and Grór had been slowly supporting more of her weight as they walked. Her ankle had clearly been twisted when her boot got caught in her skirts and Grór didn't like to think about how Thrór would react to knowing that his wife had fallen over and injured herself whilst walking with him.

They were ushered into a private room, reserved only for the King and Queen and Hrera's leg was given a quick and thorough check over before being declared just a twisted ankle and wrapped tightly in bandages to help with the healing.

Whilst she was there they offered to do a thorough check up, and Hrera, being the Dwarrowdam that she was, accepted.

She barely controlled a flinch at the blank face of the healer when he re-entered the room. Borin, Thrór's uncle and the royal healer, had a very expressive face, so a blank face was worrying to Hrera, and as a realistic Dwarf she assumed the worse.

Grór beside her was staring at his uncle in worry too, "Irak'adad what is wrong with her?!"

Borin smiled benevolently at the two of them and chuckled quietly, "Khul nadadul, everything is wonderful."

Hrera stared wide-eyed at Borin, wondering what exactly could be good news when he had looked so unlike himself earlier, "What is it? I must know now Borin!"

"Calm yourself please Hrera, you are usually much calmer than this."

"You are agitating me irak'adad!" Hrera huffed, rearranging her slightly rumpled skirts around her as she stood from the examination pallet.

"You are with child iraknâtha." There was a surprised intake of breath from Grór beside her but she barely heard it, her heart was beating loudly in her eyes, she could hear the whoosh of her breath leaving her in shock and her stomach tightened with nervousness.

She heard herself as if down a deep mineshaft, "I'm what?" her voice was breathy and distant, barely a whisper.

"You are going to be an 'amad Hrera." There was what seemed like a bright flash and then blackness. Grór watched, still frozen with shock, as his brother's wife fell for the second time that day. Luckily Borin was there to catch her before she hit the ground this time, an amused expression colouring his handsome Longbeard features.

There was also a hint of excitement hidden in his eyes. Any child was the most precious gift a Dwarf could receive after a wife or husband, and a royal heir was even more precious, though Borin would have treasured such a child even were he not the Uncle of the King. A child only five years into a marriage was a blessing from Mahal himself.

Borin carefully lay his nephew's wife back on the pallet and elevated her feet until she awoke from her faint. He then walked up to his nephew and, when waving his hand in front of his face didn't work, punched him lightly on the arm, and then harder again when the first failed.

Grór was brought back to himself spluttering, his mouth opening and closing silently for a few minutes before he finally gathered himself enough to speak, "A nadan? Hrera is going to have a nadan? But… it's so early uncle! How can this be?"

"'Ikhuzh irakdashatith! We do not question the ways of Mahal, you know this. He has chosen to bless your nadad with a nadan, and it will be celebrated."

Grór frowned at his uncle, "I wasn't questioning you uncle, I know our customs as well as the next Dwarrow, and I am just amazed. Mahal has blessed this family with a child and I could not be happier."

Borin chuckled lightly and patted his nephew on the shoulder (much too hard in Grór's opinion) before striding over to Hrera and reviving her slowly from her faint. When she had recovered from her fainting fit Grór helped her back to her room, both of them stumbling every few seconds from the shock of the discovery.

Grór left Hrera sitting numbly on the edge of the royal bed, her hands clasped loosely in her lap, her braids, always perfectly arranged, were in disarray around her head where she had ruffled her hands over her head. It was not a state she would have ever allowed anyone to see her in if she had been completely aware of her actions.

Whilst Grór hurried to fetch his brother so that Hrera could tell him the news, said Dwarrowdam was – subtly – freaking out in their chambers.

The more she considered the fact that she was going to be an 'amad, the harder she found the urge to laugh hysterically to repress. It was the thought that her child would be the Crown Prince to Erebor and Durin's Folk that sent her over the edge. She could no longer control the laughs bubbling up from her roiling stomach and spilling past her lips in loud almost sobs.

When Thrór entered the room he found her doubled over, clutching her hands to herself just below her stomach, her shoulders shaking with the force of the half-laughs falling from her parted lips. Thrór glanced back at his nuddadud standing just outside their rooms in confusion and worry, Grór just smiled back at him benevolently and walked away to find Stera.

He cautiously approached his wife who looked up at him through eyes glistening and eyelashes stuck together with tears. He rushed the last space between them, drawing her into his arms and resting his head on top of hers.

"What is it sabannimi?" He stroked his hand lightly over her head and her hysterical laughs still erupting out of her devolved into heaving sobs that shook her stout body in his arms. Said arms tightened around his kurdulu in worry as a frown furrowed his brow; he pressed his lips to her ruffled braids and mumbled endearments to her.

"We… I… Thrór!..." her voice cracked over his name and he pushed her away from him slightly as her sobbing took on a happier edge.

"Hrera? Âzyung? Please tell me, whatever is the matter?"

Hrera stared up at him a watery smile strengthening on her beautiful Broadbeam features, "We, Thrór, I went to see Borin…"

Thrór interrupted before Hrera could get more out and she let out an exasperated huff at the beginnings of his rambling worry, "Hrera! Why did you go to Borin?! What's…?"

"If you would let me finish, you stubborn Longbeard," here she stabbed one of her stubby fingers into his broad chest and then placed that same hand on his face, cupping his cheek, "you would realise that absolutely nothing is wrong," Thrór opened his mouth to say something else but Hrera shook her head at him menacingly and narrowed her eyes, "biragabakmi nadan melhekhel."

Thrór's eyes widened massively and the hand he had resting over Hrera's on his cheek faltered for a second, "You… what?"

"A nadan Thrór. You are to be an 'adad." Thrór couldn't control his reaction to this news, his legs gave out beneath him and he slid to his knees as his wife's words washed over him, an _'adad_! He was to be a _father_, he would finally have a family and he couldn't control the sobs that tore themselves from his very soul.

He looked up through tear filled eyes at his wife, his beautiful wife and the sudden realisation struck him like lightning. He loved her. The stern, taciturn Dwarrowdam who had been distant when they first met but had become his world so slowly over their years together that he hadn't noticed his growing love for her. His ghivasha, who was carrying his nadan! His heir! This was a blessing from Mahal and Thrór could not contain the thick tears that spilled from his eyes and streaked in rivulets down his face.

She dropped to her knees in front of him, her thick hands tangling in his beard beside his ears and brushing gently through his sideburns. She pulled his messy head forward to lean against his and closed her eyes, tears slipping from beneath both of their closed lids as they shared a quiet moment together.

Thrór brought his large hands up to either side of Hrera's face, tilting it up until they locked eyes, "Âzyunguh. My Âzyungel. I love you. Sanazyunguh."

Hrera could not have stopped the silly grin spreading across her face if she had tried, "I love you too, ghivashel. You are my umurad. Sanmelekuh."

Umurad – soul

Âzyungel – love of loves

Ghivashel – treasure of all treasures

Sanmelekuh – my perfect (true/pure) half

Sanazyunguh – my pure/perfect love

Âzyunguh – my love

'adad – father

Nadan – child

'amad – mother

Umurad – soul

Ghivasha – treasure

biragabakmi – I expect

melhekhel – king of all kings

âzyung – love

sabannimi – beautiful

kurdulu – heart

namad – sister

nadad – brother

gamil nadad – old brother

Irak'adad - uncle

Khul - peace

Nadadul – brother's son

Iraknâtha – niece

'Ikhuzh - stop

Irakdashatith – little/young nephew

Nuddadud – tiny brother


	7. Frerin

He had been trying to get his nephews to call him uncle for going on two decades now and Fíli and Kíli still refused to acknowledge him when he got into one of his pestering moods.

Thorin had rolled his eyes many a time as Frerin trailed after his larger nephews, whining in their ears and tugging their braids until one of them complained about his insistent pestering and did something, almost always the comment "you're too young to understand", that caused Frerin to storm away angrily promising payback and Frís to whack both her grandsons around the back of the head and then Thorin and Víli had to get Fíli and Kíli to apologise to everyone. This cycle had gone on for much too long in Thorin's opinion and he knew that sometime soon it would all come to a head.

It happens on a day where for once no one was agitated. Thorin and Thráin had been in their forges all day, working on separate projects for Hrera's upcoming name day. Frís was spending her time with Hrera; Thrór was in the mess hall with Fundin and Groin and Frerin was falling Fíli and Kíli around, trying to force them to accidentally call him uncle.

He is trotting after his young nephews when his foot catches on a slightly uneven floor tile (a very odd and rare occurrence in Mahal's Halls) and he is sent in a graceless sprawl on the floor behind his nephews. Both Dwarves spin around at the noise and exchange glances full of glee before bursting into raucous peals of laughter that have them bent double before Frerin.

Frerin for his part wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole – he even contemplates begging Mahal to make him reborn – he has spent so damn long trying to get the fucking trouble-making twits that are his irakdashat to call him uncle and he will not let this stupid accident (that he knows they will tease him about mercilessly for years) come between him and his goal!

Frerin knows that he must do something now or be forever mocked by the little shits that he has the displeasure of calling sister-sons, a smirk crosses his face as he thinks of something, and the next thing they know Fíli and Kíli are smashing onto their backs on the floor, and Frerin is standing over them a devilish smirk on his face. Being small had its advantages now and then ; he had swept out with his arms and legs and tripped the two Dwarves from where he was lying and then leapt to his feet straight after.

He couldn't hold back the (slightly insane sounding) chuckles bursting from between his lips as he watched his two nephews struggling where they were tangled together on the floor. He turned to leave but couldn't resist spinning back for a parting shot.

"Maybe next time you should respect your betters." With that said Frerin spun on his heels to find Thorin to bug.


	8. Gimrís

_(This is Gimli's younger sister - a character from Determamfidd's story Sansukh ((used with her permission)))_

Her and Bofur have been courting for months now, all of the social and courting obligations are out of the way and Glóin has finally stopped staring angrily at Bofur whenever he enters a room, it is now just a glare every few minutes, but both Bofur and Gimrís count this as a victory and try not to do anything in front of her, loving, yet easily angered, father.

Dáin is throwing a large Durin's Day celebration that, for the first time since their deaths, is not half focused on Thorin, Fíli and Kíli and is almost entirely focused on how well the mountain has flourished since they started clearing up.

Dís and Dáin are at the head table, wrapped up in conversation with the members of The Company, Bofur had been up there with them until a few minutes ago when he had drifted away in search of his brother, food and a drink, and maybe, if Glóin is not watching with eagle eyes again, find Gimrís and have a few dances with his maybe-nearly-fiancé.

Bofur finds Gimrís, after talking to Bombur for a few minutes, seated with her close friend Ábria at a table hidden near the back of the room. Gimrís had been being bugged to dance for most of the night; whilst her and Bofur has started to court, nothing was official yet so some Dwarrows thought it was still okay to approach her for dancing, and Gimrís knows, for more most likely.

She lets an audible sigh of relief at Bofur's approach and a slow, uncharacteristically shy, smile spreads across her lips. Beside Gimrís, Ábria smirks into her beard, before rising from her seat surreptitiously and slinking away back to the dance, her hips already swaying to the beat of the music.

Bofur settles into the seat next to her and despite the amount of time that they have spent together throughout the last few months there is still a moment of awkward silence before their now usual lively conversation commences. They have been speaking for twenty minutes when Bofur notices Gimrís' subtle, infrequent glances at the packed dance floor and her slight nervous fidgeting beside him.

He tries to recall everything from the dance lessons he's been receiving from Bombur's wife Alrís and wills his mind not to go blank as he takes a deep breath and stands from his seat. He holds his hand out to Gimrís and has to swallow a few times before he can get the words out through his nervousness.

"Can I have this dance, ghivasha?" He accompanies his question with a slight bow and a wink, that for the first time is not mocking at all, and his hat tips forward somewhat down his forehead. A light flush spreads across Gimrís' cheeks and she smiles widely at him, taking his hand and rising to her feet with him.

They reach the dance floor just as the band starts up a new tune and Bofur quickly pulls Gimrís into the fast, energetic jig that every Dwarrow learns before their majority. She lets out an incredibly uncharacteristic squeal as he twirls her into the fast stomps, leg kicks and frenzied clapping of a Dwarven usrun.

It happens when they've been dancing for nearly an hour. Gimrís' legs are beginning to ache from the extremely energetic dancing and her throat is becoming parched from the amount of shouting and hollering they've been doing. She misses a step and her and Bofur's legs get tangled together and they fall in a flurry of limbs and curses.

There is a shout from the surrounding dwarves as they topple over together, narrowly missing pulling down multiple other Dwarves with them.

There is a moment of silence when everyone stares at them with horror, the temper of Gróin's line is known throughout the mountain, but then Gimrís can't control the laughter bubbling up in her chest and soon her and Bofur are rolling on the floor with the force of their hilarity.

Khuzdul:

Usrun – dance

Ghivasha – treasure


	9. Frís

_(This is Thorin's mother - a character from Determamfidd's story Sansukh ((used with her permission)))_

_Frís_

The heat, the unbearable heat!

It burned her lungs with every breath as she kept pace with her family.

Frerin clutched Dís tightly to him as they ran just ahead; Thráin's knuckles were white where he held onto Thorin's wrist.

They had to run they had to flee!

"Amad!"

"Keep your eyes forward Frerin!"

"Mam!"

"It's alright Dís mam's here!"

It was hard to be heard over the screaming and the thunderous roars that echoed all around them.

Smaug had come.

The very breath was knocked from her as she hit the ground the hem of her gown snagged on a jagged piece of rock.

Her leg ached; a sharp pain rocketed up her body as she tried to stand.

Frerin was the first to look back; she saw the panic in his eyes as he frantically searched for her.

You have to get out!

She couldn't find her voice; Frerin had called his father back.

No no no you have to get out!

Thráin ordered them to run, she saw Thorin's look of defiance.

"Thorin take your brother and sister and run!"

Thorin bowed his head and Frís could see his tears as he grabbed Frerin and led them out.

"I'll be right behind you I promise..."

She whispered, watching them go, looking up to see Thráin fighting his way against the crowd to her.

"No don't worry about me! Go to them. You CANNOT leave them alone! I'll be right behind you!"

Please don't leave them alone they cannot lose us both!

She tried to push herself up again, her body flooded with pain as her legs buckled and she fell to her knees.

He had nearly reached her when there was a deafening crack as the ceiling gave and rock and marble fell into the hall between them.

The screams only grew louder as they were plunged into darkness, suffocating darkness.

She covered her mouth to stifle her cries, tears streaming down her face and beard.

She could hear his voice on the other side of the debris, yelling frantically to her. Thráin, oh her beautiful husband and she'd never see him again.

They cannot get out.

The heat came again, the very walls were melting...

_Thráin_

"Frís..."

His voice broke and his legs fell out from under him and he dropped forward palms pressed to the floor.

"Frís!"

He was up again, clawing at the rubble trying to get through, he HAD to get through!

He could hear their voices on the other side a terrified chorus of anguish and despair.

Then they stopped.

His heart fell and he could taste the bile in his mouth as a pulled his hands away from the now white hot rock.

He couldn't save her.


End file.
